“You do realize we are already at war, do you not?”
Adechike shook his head. “I don’t entirely agree with what we’re doing in Rumika, but it’s an incursion, a small-scale conflict with clearly defined goals based on a real threat. This? Mertika joining means that Kakute and Ikaro will be forced into the war as well. Old resentments will be reborn. And to what end? In their best case . . .” He stopped, face stricken.
“That’s right,” Ojo said. “If they win, Quloo will become just another colony of the Mertikan empire.”
“And they could win, Uncle!” Adechike yelled this as though Ojo didn’t already know. If Ojo were a betting man and a traitor, his money would be on Mertika in this fight.
“It’s all the High Skies’ fault! They are nothing more than warmongers! And now this ridiculous stunt with the Rumikan island! For what? Enough aerstone for one ship, perhaps?”
Ojo had never seen Adechike so worked up. “Even that small quantity of aerstone will help keep us afloat,” he pointed out.
Adechike scoffed. “We are so desperate that we need to steal islands to mine now?”
“Yes, Adechike, that is exactly how desperate we are!” Ojo grabbed the younger man’s shoulders. “If we don’t get aerstone, we will sink beneath the Mists. Not in fifty years, not in thirty years, but in ten or fifteen! And not only that, but we will be completely incapable of defending ourselves while it’s happening. Pretty soon Mertika won’t even need to fight us.”
Adechike stared at him in disbelief. “Surely, it’s not so—”
“Surely,” Ojo stated deliberately, “it is.”
“Come now, Uncle,” Adechike said. “I understand you’re upset, but exaggerating doesn’t help anything.”
“I am not exaggerating.” Ojo tried to order his breathing and his tone so that Adechike would believe him. “The situation is far worse than most people know. We are in dire risk of losing the entire island.”
Adechike kept shaking his head, as if that way he could convince Ojo it wasn’t true. “That’s not possible! I have never even heard of an island disappearing into the Mists! Besides, my father would know about it.”
“Your father does know,” Ojo said as gently as he could.
“And he didn’t . . .” Adechike’s voice trailed off, because there was really nothing surprising about his father keeping something from him. “And you!” Adechike’s eyes refocused on Ojo. “You didn’t tell me either!”
“It wasn’t precisely my secret.” But whether to tell his apprentice was his decision. Ojo tried again. “You didn’t need to know, and I gain no pleasure from sharing such horrifying news.” His silence was harder to explain than he had thought.
“Didn’t need to know? You never took me seriously as a warder at all, did you?”
“All I meant was that it seemed still far in the future. But now you need to understand why the High Skies faction is doing what they are doing in Rumika.”
Adechike shook him off. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing justifies what we are doing. Nothing!” He glared at Ojo. “I know you know that.”
“We are fighting for our survival.” Ojo spoke calmly, but his pulse was pounding in his ears.
“That does not justify this!” Adechike growled. “Nothing does.” He turned and slammed out of the room.
Chapter 3
Michiko
The situation at the lifts was far less chaotic than it had been yesterday, but possibly more disquieting: the emergency situation had become official. When Michiko and Takeshi explained their errand, they were guided to an area cordoned off with silk twists to wait for the lift that had been commandeered for the exclusive use of city officials managing the crisis. How long does Yochno expect this to last? Michiko wondered, looking at the neatly lettered signs on the other lifts, indicating that they were locked from descending to the lowest island.
When they disembarked on the lowest level, it felt similar: more organized but also worse. There were barricades—actual barricades!—closing off some streets, and the rioters had set up puppets along the tops of them to flutter and bob mockingly at all the newly arrived. A small platform and draperies had been used to set up a command post in the middle of the plaza, and there was a woman with the three hollyhock blooms of a colonel standing beside it, conversing with an aide.
“You can take Biskr Street,” she said, when Michiko approached her for information. “It’s been cleared as far as Dangran Boulevard.”
Michiko hovered, unwilling to admit she didn’t know any of the street names on this island.
“That one.” The colonel pointed it out, then gave Michiko and Takeshi a quick assessing look, lingering over their blades. “Be careful,” she said. “While the worst of the rioting has quieted, some of the more organized street gangs have taken advantage.” She nodded at the barricades. “It’s mainly an attempt to win some concessions from the government and take tolls from locals, but I don’t think they’d be above ransom if it fell into their hands. And they’ve been careful to paint the upper islands as the enemy.”
“What kind of gangs?” Takeshi asked.
“The Iron Pigeons are a local group, but we’ve had some trouble from the Zenatan Stone Fish gang as well. And the Apolytoi.” She frowned. “And I recommend you stay away from the dockworkers.” The colonel nodded to them and then turned back to her aide.
No attempt to dissuade them. Then again, they were warders. They were supposed to be able to take care of themselves.
A cold wash of fear roiled Michiko’s innards.
There were a few Twaa-Fei soldiers standing around on the first block of Biskr Street, out of the lift plaza, but after that the island was eerily quiet. They saw no one, and nothing moved but a lone cat skittering under a garden gate as they passed. Michiko sniffed the air: it smelled ashy, but she couldn’t tell if something was still burning or if it was residue from the night before.
“This is strange,” she whispered.
Takeshi was frowning. “It is dangerous.”
Michiko brought her hand to her hilt but gave him a questioning look: she didn’t sense any immediate threat.
“I mean dangerous for the idea of Twaa-Fei. This place is predicated on the idea of neutrality and safety for everyone.” Takeshi glanced at the scorch marks on the white plaster walls of one of the houses lining the avenue. “But it seems not everyone felt equally safe.”
Michiko had never thought of Twaa-Fei in that way. She had seen the conflict in terms of national battles or personal drama, but the idea of losing the fundamental locus of diplomacy filled her with dread.
They came to a large cross street. “Dangran Boulevard?” Michiko hazarded, looking down it both ways. No one was visible. “I’m going to try to find the ship that witnessed the island theft.” She managed a grin. “I guess I’ll just avoid the dockworkers. Are you still going to see your Zenatan friends?”
Takeshi was pensive. “I am interested to hear what they know about what’s going on here, although I must admit, hearing of a Zenatan gang makes me wonder if it might not be the best time to visit them.”
“I notice she didn’t mention a Mertikan gang,” Michiko said lightly. “Do you think—”
Takeshi grabbed her arm, but Michiko had already stopped talking: she heard it too. Shouts and clatter from behind them. She spun around, and a moment later a dozen women, suited in Vanian blue gowns and carrying poles, spears, and at least one sword, burst out of an alley a block down Biskr.
“I guess we found the Apolytoi instead.” Takeshi’s tone was mild, but his hand tightened on her arm. “They seem a little less controlled in this environment than in Phaedra’s club.”
“They’re coming this way,” Michiko said, and realized she was nervously inching her sword up and down in its scabbard.
“Stay calm,” said Takeshi, which didn’t help.
“Hey!” one of the women roared. “A man! An Ikaran!”
More and more women were pouring into the street
. Not all of them were Vanian, but they all seemed to have bought into the movement, wearing similarly styled gowns—although clearly not everybody could afford true Vanian blue. They were turning toward Takeshi with fury in their eyes.
“Aren’t you going to do something?” Michiko muttered to Takeshi.
“I—” But Takeshi didn’t get a chance to complete his answer.
“What are you doing here?” The yell was loud enough to cut through the ambient growl of the crowd, and Michiko looked up. The front line of the mob was only a few dozen steps from them now, and with a shock Michiko recognized the woman in the front: Dione Galanis.
Michiko’s first thought was I beat her once; I can do it again. But this wouldn’t be a fight in a ring, maybe not a fight at all: Galanis was backed by tens, maybe more than a hundred believers.
“You are here to support the Rumikan invasion, aren’t you?” Galanis yelled, racing ahead of the mob toward them. “I knew not to trust you!” Her mouth broke into a grin as she drew a short sword.
Michiko thought about the ways she could cut Galanis down: by miring her in mud, or turning her fist to ice, or shouting at her with the breath of a tempest. But that would mean getting enmeshed in this mob, and besides, Michiko found herself loath to use craft against someone she had dueled blades with fairly. She carved Gale Step, turning to Takeshi as she did. “Are you with me?”
“They’re using bladecraft!” yelled one of the women behind Galanis. “Quick! Grab them before they bring down lightning on us all!”
Michiko hesitated, not wanting to leave Takeshi to the mercy of the mob, but his sword came out in a breath. He started to cut a sigil, and before he had finished three strokes, she recognized it as Split the Sky.
With the power of Gale Step bolstering her, she was on a roof and heading east before the sigil flashed.
Chapter 4
Takeshi
Split the Sky was Takeshi’s favorite tactic, and he had refined it precisely to create different effects based on his needs. In this case he was careful not to scorch anyone. The lightning shocked the mob: most of them dove for cover and the rest dropped what they were doing to look up or run in the other direction. Takeshi took off down Dangran Boulevard. When he glanced back, a few of the women were pursuing him, but he had also practiced carving Gale Step while running, and he outpaced them quickly.
It took him some time to get his bearings enough to find his way around to the Zenatan neighborhood. He ended up going all the way down to the docks, where workers were muttering uneasily in clusters, and then working his way back up to Little Zenatai, near the northern coast.
Naturally, no one was visible. Takeshi walked up and down the street twice, wondering what to do. Usually there were people sitting on the giant wooden benches along the street or standing on the corners. He didn’t know exactly where Lenata, one of his embassy servants, lived, and pounding on the door of people’s homes seemed rude. Takeshi turned the corner, remembering the small restaurant where he had eaten with Lenata once. The door was closed, but there he didn’t mind knocking, and after a few pounds it creaked open to reveal a slice of a balding man’s anxious face.
“I’m looking for Lenata,” Takeshi said diffidently, slipping easily into his harmless and timid persona. “Or maybe Miho? Or Yuki?”
The door opened wider. “Miho’s off with the refugees. Lenata might be around.”
“I can wait,” Takeshi said.
Ten minutes later he and Lenata were seated in the restaurant, sharing a pot of mediocre tea. “I just wanted to see if there is anything I can do,” Takeshi said. “And also learn what you’re seeing of the situation.”
“Thank you,” Lenata said. “It’s bad down here. There have been two attacks already, and most people are hunkered down in their homes. Maybe if you can bring it to the attention of the seneschal . . . ?”
“He’s how I heard about it,” Takeshi answered. “Are the security forces not helping?”
“They are more concerned about the docks,” Lenata answered. “I don’t think they believe we are in real danger, but we are—and the refugees are too.”
“Why did the refugees burn their shelter?”
“They didn’t!” Lenata was indignant. “It was a gang of Apolytoi who wanted to get rid of the refugees. Of course they bungled the arson, but somehow it turned out even better for them, because everyone blamed the refugees for it.”
“That story I can try to spread around, because nobody has heard that.”
“We keep trying to talk to the government, but of course we don’t have a representative on the council, so . . .” Lenata shrugged.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Takeshi promised.
“They ignore us, but these islands won’t work without us. The warders, the rich merchants, all the fancy people in the upper islands need us. They’ll see over the next few days.” Lenata leaned forward. “That power? We can use it to harm. But we could also use it to help someone. Help them gain power in this city. If they helped us.”
Takeshi wasn’t ready to respond to that, so he changed the subject. “And these attacks . . .”
“They destroyed shops, stock, tried to burn a house down. They want us to leave, but where should we go this time? Where can we go?”
“Have there been many injuries?” Takeshi asked, mainly to avoid questions he had no answer to. “Do you need more help in the clinic?”
“We can handle that type of healing,” Lenata answered with a wan smile. “We’re Zenatan.”
“What do you mean?” Takeshi asked, louder than he’d intended.
“Oh, you know, it’s something of a joke.” Lenata eyed him. “Healing was the Zenatai birthright. Of course we lost it, along with our island and our homes, in Quloi aggression, but people like to believe we still have the knack.”
“I didn’t know that was the birthright,” Takeshi answered numbly. All his studies, and maybe he had been asking the wrong questions.
“Most people don’t bother to know anything about Zenatai. As far as they’re concerned, we no longer exist.”
Chapter 5
Michiko
Michiko charged along the rooftops, adding agility and speed sigils, and in one case levitation, as needed, to get herself to the docks without setting foot on the ground. When she reached the vast rows of warehouses that faced the seaport, she floated herself down off a low-hanging roof eave and looked around.
At least the docks weren’t as forebodingly empty as the streets. She saw guards in front of the nearest wharf, and in front of them knots of men standing around as though waiting for something. Had the work stopped already? Michiko approached the nearest group. “Excuse me, could you direct me to the Green Parrot?”
The four men turned to look at her. “You looking for passage off this island?” asked one.
“No, I just have a few questions for the captain,” Michiko answered. She was feeling less and less certain that this was a good idea.
“Jamer, isn’t that the ship docked over in 18B?”
“It’s the ship that saw that island get pulled away,” put in a third man, looking Michiko up and down. She ignored him.
“18B is . . . that way?” Michiko tapped her foot surreptitiously to see how much Gale Step was left in her.
“That way.”
Michiko started walking.
“You won’t get in, though,” the man called after her. “They’ve blocked everything off!”
“Better get off this island before it’s too late!” his friend yelled.
She kept going, wondering how Takeshi was faring with the mob. Hopefully he’d gotten away quickly. The Split the Sky trick was not a bad—
Michiko jumped backward and had her blade out again before she knew what had triggered her.
“Whoa there, I’m not trying anything. Just saw you passing and wanted to say hello.”
Michiko sheathed her blade. “Sorry, Anton, I guess this atmosphere is making me a little jumpy.”
“Really?”
“Not a problem.” Anton laughed. “Come on—we’ll wait it out in here.” He caught Michiko’s arm and ushered her through a dark, overhung door. The room was tiny and dim, lit only by two miniscule windows and a whale-oil lamp. Five stools and a couple of packing crates were the sum of its furnishings.
“What is this place?” Michiko asked. “Your pied-à-terre in Twaa-Fei?”
Anton laughed again. “No, Warder, it’s a tavern.” He went to the back of the room and banged on the wall, and a moment later a disgruntled-looking woman with a runny nose appeared, holding a pint glass in one hand. Seeing Michiko, she ducked back through the door and returned with another one. She set both glasses down on one of the packing crates, touched her forehead in Anton’s direction, and backed out again.
“We can talk here,” Anton said, pulling out a stool and straddling it. “As a matter of fact, I was very happy to chance a meeting with you, Warder Oda.”
“Why is that?” Michiko asked. She remained standing.
“I heard you are looking into the attack on the Rumikan fleet.”
“Who told you that?” Michiko asked. She had tried to be discreet.
Anton ran a fingertip along the curve of his eyebrow in the sign for conspiracy. “I have my sources,” he said. “Golden sources, some of them.”
Michiko stared. He could not mean . . .
Anton grinned at her. “We Herroki have our ways of talking to ghosts,” he said. “Kin or not. In any case, my sources tell me you are interested in finding the truth about the fleet, wherever it may lead?”
“I am,” Michiko said. Outside, someone yelled, and a moment later she heard a thump and more raised voices.
“Good,” Anton said. “Because there was a survivor. She’s been living on the Blue Fang since it happened, and I need someone to figure out what to do with her.”
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